


like waves against the rocks

by Areiton



Series: Steter Week 2018 [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alternate Universe, Depressed Peter, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, selkie stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 16:35:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15392892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: He finds the boy on the rocks.It isn’t a mystery what the boy is, not naked and smelling of blood and salt and sea, not barely covered by a soaked pelt.For a long moment, while the waves crashed against the rocks, and lap cold water over his ankles, Peter debates walking away.





	like waves against the rocks

**Author's Note:**

> STETER WEEK!!!  
> This is my entry for creature Stiles & Alpha Peter and if it has typos, I wrote it standing in lines at Comic Con, so just. I'll clean it up when I get home. Enjoy, loves. And mind the tags.

He finds the boy on the rocks.

It isn’t a mystery what the boy is, not naked and smelling of blood and salt and sea, not barely covered by a soaked pelt.

For a long moment, while the waves crashed against the rocks, and lap cold water over his ankles, Peter debates walking away.

He didn’t come here to find strays. He came here—

He cuts that thought off and the boy makes a noise, broken and pleading and Peter huffs as he lifts him, gentle despite his irritation, and carries him home.

 

~*~

 

Peter doesn’t like sleeping, because when he sleeps he can hear the fire and feel the soft skin of baby Nora under his claws and Talia staring at him.

He can feel the fire and the rapid pulse and the crack of delicate bones.

He doesn’t like sleeping, because he doesn’t like to remember the things he can’t forget.

 

~*~

 

The boy wakes in a rush, thrashing wordless on the bed as the sun is rising and Peter pins him with heavy hands, holds him still, snapping, “Stop, you’ll hurt yourself.”

Big, liquid eyes stare up at him, terror clear and he lets his hands go gentle as he says, “You were hurt. I found you on the rocks.”

The boy makes a panicked, inquisitive noise, eyes darting around the room and Peter slips to the side.

The tension drains from him, like water from the shore, as he sees it, the pelt long and luxurious and sleek as it hangs near the door.

“It’s yours,” Peter murmurs and the boy blinks at him.

 

~*~

 

Cora was his favorite. She was all fire and sass, and he thought sometimes she would take his place, be the Left hand for Laura, when Talia stepped down. He didn’t ever say it, didn’t dare, but he saw the way she watched him.

Derek was too gentle to be the pack’s killer, and Cora was sweet and vicious and brilliant.

He tried to save her, shoved her at the ash line before he broke Nora’s neck and reached for Matthew.

In the end, all it did was prolong the inevitable.

 

~*~

 

The boy doesn’t speak.

He sits in Peter’s bed, naked and beautiful, pale skin speckled with moles, pink lips and an always moving mouth, and those eyes, clever sun shot whiskey warm. He curls in his pelt and watches, and Peter thinks it should rankle, but it doesn’t.

He thinks the boy should leave, but he doesn’t.

He thinks so many things, and none of them are ever true, and the boy is taking up space and his energy, and he feels anxious, his skin too tight, a restless urge to  _ run _ that’s been burning under his skin since the fire.

He leaves the boy there, and walks along the water’s edge, and the pounding waves drown out the fire and cracking bones.

 

~*~

 

He sips tea as the sun dips toward the sea and the boy watches, blinks at him sleepily until Peter brings him dinner. 

His leg is a mess of stitches and bloody cuts and Peter wants to ask what could do that to him, but he doesn't want to know. 

The boy can’t or won’t speak, just makes a chirruping noise at him that sounds almost musical, and Peter thinks that’s better--there is no pressure to talk, no stories to tell, like this. 

There’s only the sound of the waves and the salty scent of the pelt and fish stew, warm as they eat together. 

 

~*~

 

The villagers don’t come here. Peter is solitary by nature, has been since he was a child, but after the fire, he became reclusive, refusing to go near other people. Deuc told him it was dangerous, that an alpha without a pack would go mad. Satomi worried, sent her wolves to his door and only stopped when he sent them back broken and bleeding. 

He didn’t tell them that he didn’t want a pack.

Didn’t tell them that when he walked the rocky shore, he dreamed of walking into the waves, and letting them take the last Hale, the only one the fire didn’t claim. 

 

~*~

 

The noise he makes sings high and gurgles into a low shush,  _ siiiileeesss.  _

The first time he calls the boy Stiles, he jerks on the bed, eyes wide and hopeful, voice demanding as he chirps and sings. 

Peter presses a hand to Stiles’ chest, and says,  _ Stiles _ . 

The boy’s expression goes confused, and he frowns at Peter as Peter repeats the word, and then presses a hand to his own chest. 

“Peter,” he says, emphatic and Stiles scowls.

 

~*~

 

He keeps waiting, for Stiles to slip away. 

As the days spin, and the moon glows fat and bright, tugging at him like a song, he begins to worry. 

It doesn’t take long, a few hours of Stiles scribbling on paper while Peter reads, before he finds the information. 

Selkies can turn, slip into human beds and back into the waves--unless they don't return by dawn.

Then, they are land bound, trapped in human form, at the mercy of whoever holds their pelt, while the moon brightens the sky. 

Selkies can only return to the water at the dark of the moon, wrap their pelts around them and slip under the dark waves and away. 

“Fuck,” Peter says, staring at the sky, and Stiles chirrups mournfully in response. 

 

~*~

 

He wakes, his whole body twisting away from phantom flames, a roar on his lips and tears on his face. 

He almost falls from his chair in his panic, heart thundering and he curls over his knees, a sob caught in his throat. 

Deaton said it would get easier, that he would learn how to bear it. But it's been almost ten years and he still wakes screaming and  _ misses _ them, so much it feels like another fire, consuming him. 

He shakes, a sob shuddering through him and then--

Delicate, cool fingers brush against his bare shoulder, and he looks up, into worried whiskey warm eyes. 

Stiles chirrups anxiously and Peter tries. He  _ tries _ because the selkie boy is lost and young and hurt, and he doesn’t need a broken werewolf falling apart next to him. But the weak smile he summons does nothing but make Stiles’ face soften in something that isn’t quite pity. 

He’s strong, stronger than Peter anticipates, and his chest rumbles gently against Peter’s ear, a soothing, mournful song, as he holds Peter and wraps them in a quilt as the waves crash outside. 

 

~*~

 

He killed them quick, he and Talia working their way with heartbreaking efficiancy through the babies and children. He killed his husband, a sweet beta from the south, after Diego passed out. It wasn't the hardest--the hardest was Lila, eight years old and showing claws for the first time, the niece who loved him best, who had his mother's eyes. 

The hardest was Talia, slumped against his side, gasping. “We won't even get our justice,” she raged, useless tears on her cheeks. Peter gathered her close, the alpha he loved, the sister he had protected, who had protected him. Held her against him and murmured his promise as he pulled his claws over her throat. 

“I will.”

 

~*~

 

The first time Peter takes him outside is traumatic for both of them. 

He stares out the window for days, eyes hopeful and longing and when Peter opens the door and beckons him forward on still weak legs, the selkie bolts so quickly he tumbles. Peter catches him with a huff, pulls him upright and is rewarded with a pretty blush and shy smile as Stiles tangles his fingers in the long shirt Peter gave him and Peter ignores the twist of heat in his gut. 

He helps the stumbling boy to the shoreline and watches as he crumples there, hands clenched on the rocks, eyes on the horizon, a desperate keen in his throat. 

It's heartbreaking and as the cries get more and  more desperate, Peter finally moves. Curls behind the boy and holds him as he shakes and cries. 

But it gets better. As his leg heals, Stiles can swim more, graceful and sleek in the water the way he never is when he stumbles around the cabin. 

He comes from the water, his shirt sheer and clinging to his lithe, lovely form, a brilliant smile on his lips as he chatters at Peter, alive and vibrant and intoxicating. 

Peter thinks, this strange boy from the waves will devastate him, when he leaves.

 

~*~

 

He wakes to singing, now. The nightmares never stop, truly, but the smooth timbre of Stiles haunting song pulls him to waking and it eases the panic, lets him collapse back on the bed Stiles drags him into, and long cool fingers stroke his hair as Stiles sings him back to sleep. 

Sometimes, when he drifts on the waves between waking and sleeping, he wonders who is truly rescuing who. 

 

~*~

 

Stiles hates his name. 

Peter thinks it must mean something, something important, but he's resigned himself to never knowing what. He thinks the myths and lore of selkies slipping into human beds with lovely promises and sweet seduction is a dirty lie because they can't  _ speak,  _ not any language he knows, and it's frustrating. 

And freeing, too. He finds himself talking to Stiles, while they sit on the rocky shore and let the waves play over their feet. 

He tells him about the fire, about his pack and what he did. He tells him about finding Derek in Kate Argent’s basement, blood laced with wolfsbane and guts spilling on the dirty floor. 

He tells him about slaughtering the Argents, every single member of the bloodline, from the first to the last, granting Christopher that final mercy because no one should be the last of their family. 

He tells Stiles about how badly he wants to die, how often he contemplates it and Stiles clings to him, a soothing croon in his throat as Peter weeps. 

 

~*~

 

They sleep together. Stiles hissed and spat and chittered angrily, sulking on the chair wrapped in his pelt, until Peter finally swears and drags Stiles into bed with him. The selkie smiles, smugly pleased, as he curls into Peter's pillows, almost nesting and dragging Peter into his space, forcing the wolf to hold him with grumpy chitters and content purring when they finally situated to his liking. 

It's...strange. Even before the fire, he was solitary, only ever wanting Diego in his space and even that only on his terms. 

Stiles. Stiles invades, sprawls in his bed and across his chest, stumbles through his house on sleep clumsy feet, in Peter's clothes, laughing in the water, and Peter  _ likes _ it. 

He wakes to Stiles pressed against him, a blush on the selkie’s pretty cheeks, and he can feel the tension in him, the way he arches into every innocent touch Peter gives him. 

He knows that something is building between them, and he wonders if they will reach the new moon before it breaks. He wonders if he even wants it to. 

 

~*~

 

Peter is reading when they hear the scream. Stiles is on the bed, half dozing under his pelt, and it jerks him from sleep with a strangled  _ “Siiiileeesss!’ _

He scrambles from the bed, and is out the door in a blink, faster than Peter can move, and the werewolf curses, running after him into the stormy night. 

The scream comes again and something in him recognizes it, the selkie equivalent of a howl. Stiles throws his back and  _ screams,  _ high and eerie and undulating, a noise that Peter has never heard him make. 

He throws himself at the water and the rocks and Peter shouts, catching the boy around the waist before he can dash himself against them. 

Stiles screams again, helpless fury and Peter realizes he’s begging, “Please, Stiles no. You can't yet, not yet. It's not safe. You  _ can't.”  _

The man who steps from the waves startles him and doesn't, all at once, and Stiles makes a wordless keening noise, reaching for him. 

Peter releases the boy in a rush and the other man--older, with sharp blue eyes and weathered skin and a pale pelt hanging from his shoulders--catches him, holds him as Stiles sobs and croons. Nuzzles into him with a happy sigh. 

“Who are you?” the selkie asks over Stiles shoulder and Peter jerks. “What the hell are you doing with my son?”

“Peter. He--he was hurt. His leg.” 

The selkie sighs, but it's fond and Stiles chitters anxiously. “And he got stuck, didn't he?” He looks at Stiles and asks something that gets an indignant screech before he pulls out of the selkie’s arms and pets Peter’s arm. 

“He likes you,” the selkie admits. “And you aren't keeping him here. Can he stay. Until the dark moon?” 

Peter laughs. “He can stay as long as he wants,” he says, bitterly and too honest. 

Stiles stares at him intently and murmurs a question at his father who scowls as he answers. 

The smile Stiles gives him then. It's lovely and shy and so sweet it makes him ache. 

 

~*~

 

The day of the new moon, he wakes to find his bed empty, Stiles’ pelt draped over him. It's the first time Stiles has left it with him, and the trust is not lost on him. 

For less than a heartbeat, he wonders. What would it be like, to hide the pelt. To keep Stiles, always. 

He shoves the pelt aside and almost bolts from the house, eyes glowing until he finds Stiles, standing on the rocks. The wind presses Peter's shirt to him, exposes every line and sharp angle of his body, blows messy hair into his eyes, softens the smile Stiles gives him that is sharp and reminds Peter just how dangerous seals can be. 

He shivers and Stiles extends a hand, waiting patiently. 

It feels natural, a easy step into Stiles arms and kissing him as the water breaks against the rocks, against their ankles, feels  _ right.  _

 

~*~

 

He stands on the shore when Stiles strips out of Peter's shirt. For a moment he is alabaster carved liquid, lovely and ethereal and marked only by the bruises Peter left on his hips when Stiles gasped and writhed in his bed, when he lay back and let the selkie take his pleasure. 

Then his eyes flutter shut and he whips his pelt around his shoulder, and the air seems to swell as Stiles shivers and  _ shifts.  _

The seal is dark, black and sleek with pale speckles in his fur, absurdly long whiskers--but his eyes. His eyes are still whiskey warm and bright, happy.

Peter watches him splash and a pale selkie emerges from the waves, barking sharply. Stiles calls back, gleeful, before twisting. 

He stares at his selkie, at his Stiles, for an endless moment, an impossible yearning in his heart. 

When the waves crash against the rock again, Stiles and the selkies are gone. 

 

~*~

 

It's hard to go back to being alone. He thinks it's strange, how quickly he became used to Stiles in his space, how quickly he learned to love it. 

He spends his full moons running along the shore and his days watching the horizon but as the days shorten and winter settles in, as the months pass--he begins to accept that this is his life, and that Stiles has no place in it, even if he carved a place out for him. 

It's a low ache, a constant grief that resides with his dead pack and for a long time, he dwells in that. 

The nightmares come back, but now they are filled with Stiles screaming, and drowning and Peter helpless to save him. 

Now, he wakes and there is no warm song to soothe him to sleep, no sleep soft boy curled against him. 

He pulls out his wolfsbane and for the first time in over a year, considers it. 

Truly considers killing himself, ending it all again. 

 

~*~

 

A knock jars him as he is writing a letter to Satomi.  He pauses and listens for a moment and under the familiar sound of the waves on the rocks, there is a familiar heartbeat, tripping nervous and hopeful. 

He jerks open the door and 

“Stiles,” he breathes and Stiles smiles, beautiful and bright and everything Peter has missed for months. 

He drags the boy close and hesitates, just shy of kissing him and Stiles makes a familiar impatient noise and presses in, licks into his mouth with a cool wet tongue, nipping with teeth too sharp. His fingers are digging into Peter's hips and the pelt slides to the ground, forgotten, as Peter kisses him like it's the only thing he wants to do. 

 

~*~

 

Later, while Peter thrusts into him, kisses his slack, open mouth and listens to his wordless croon, he makes senseless promises he would die to keep and comes with a groan, teeth pressed into Stiles throat and Stiles arches into him, clings like he will never leave and when he comes, he sighs out, “ _ Peter _ .” 


End file.
